Take your favorite things,
….tear ‘em to pieces,
…holding that which you love in your heart.

Stir them up ‘in-si-ide,’ wear ‘em, release ‘em knowing now just, -who you ‘ar-are.’

A secret box ‘in-si-ide,’
Cherish, believe them,
…holding that which you love in your heart.

A special place inside, stirring, increasing and now you’re building your heart.

So take your ‘fa-vor-ite’ things,
….tear ‘em to pieces,
…holding that which you love in your heart.

Stir them up ‘in-si-ide,’ wear ‘em, release ‘em knowing now just, -who you ‘ar-are.’

A secret box ‘in-si-ide,’
Cherish, believe them,
…holding that which you love in your heart.

A special place inside, stirring, increasing and now you’re building your heart.

chorus
And now you’re building,
AND NOW YOU’RE BUILDING,
And now you’re building your heart.

So take your ‘fa-vor-ite’ things,
chorus…and hold that which you love in…
So take your ‘fa-vor-ite’ things,
chorus…and hold that which you love in…
Take your ‘fa-vor-ite’ things,
chorus…and hold that which you love in…
Take your ‘fa-vor-ite’ things,
chorus…and hold that which you love in…

Soft spoken end*
Take your favorite things,
….tear ‘em to pieces,
…holding that which you love in your heart…

Depression is not when I attend a funeral,
And the dead have been prettied,
and the coffins have been chosen.
It is not the sorrow I feel..

Depression is not when I fail a test,
Nor is it when I dishonor my family,
Or when I make a fool out of myself that day.

Depression is when I laugh heartily with family,
And chatter fills the air, it's a grand time!
But hell.. Is it hard to breath.

Depression is when I am alone and at peace,
And the clock ticks and the ink drips,
And suddenly I am suffocating in my thoughts.
Like a deep sea of worry, stress and negativity.

Depression is when my body is stone,
And every move feels like I'm dragging tons.
And so, I shed black tears.

It is when my thoughts are in blots.
It is when I am inky.

~ M.M

Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear.
                     Staring at faith
                   Staged by hope--
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
               The sound of deep
                       Calling to deep.

Repressed feelings buried by time.
Epitaph reads on the forgotten grave:

"Here lies the child now grown.
  His hopes and dreams
       Dashed to pieces.
  This is where the child died."

I often hear the Mystic Keeper
        Calling from night
And tradition calling from artificial light

As I run through scorched barren
                          Fields of doubt.

Walking barefoot over these coals
    Crouching low
                   To hide my eyes

As I run    
         And as I hide    
  From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.

When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
                White cliffs of hope
Like the white cliffs of Dover
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea. 
But they often turn out to be
Withered white
     Seeds of religious platitudes.

      And then there is the ready reflection
Of the looking glass
        That often tricks the beholder.
For in it truth is not seen.
What is seen is graffiti of soul
       Hiding the crumbling
                         Cracks of age–

The threshold where
         Sanity meets its end.

Isolation has become
       A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
    Into the heart of hearts.

Nothing lives after amputation.
Depending on emotional prosthetics--
Phantom pain
                  When nothing is there.

But in the midst of these devastations
I am learning to take--

     Howbeit reluctantly--

The hand of trust and grace.
Allowing
            Hope to build
      A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
       Than no control at all.